


The Night Ahead

by helaodinsdottir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helaodinsdottir/pseuds/helaodinsdottir
Summary: bucky came out of cryostasis after just a few months. with the help of steve, he’s trying to piece the fractions of his mind back together. while flipping through old HYDRA files, he remembers something from his days as the winter soldier: you.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: so this fic has been a major pain in my ass. started off as a one-shot based off the song “house on a hill” by the pretty reckless, and has slowly mutated into a freaking series. this part is in bucky’s POV, but after this, the rest of the series (save for one other part) will be in the “reader’s” perspective. there’s a lot of flashbacks in this fic, which is a new kind of thing for me. all flashbacks are written in italics. this fic is something new for me, so if you could leave me messages letting me know what you think i would be eternally grateful! there's also really awful translations of German, Russian, and Romanian (thanks to google translate i apologize in advance).

Bucky flipped through the files, trying to ignore Steve’s gaze weighing on him. Most of the folders were thin. There was maybe a page or two of mostly useless information. Possible aliases, possible contacts, and activities. It was all varied, and its accuracy debatable. There was only one thing each file had in common – every file, every person, was a HYDRA associate.  

He tossed a file onto the table, his gaze lifting enough to unsurprisingly find Steve’s glacier blues focused on his face. Bucky held the look for a brief moment before he dropped his eyes and opened up the new folder. “I’m fine, Steve.” 

 _I’m fine. I’m fine._  After three months, the phrase felt almost like bile in his throat whenever he said the words. A simple expression that has transfigured into something pale and flat from overuse. Bucky had said it when he came out of cryo three months ago, when Wakandan scientists thought they had found a way to negate whatever HYDRA had put in him, only to have the experiment fall through. He said it again when his future was discussed, now that he was thawed and still a ticking time bomb. The possibility of going back into cryo was discussed, but Bucky refused because he was fine. And the relief he saw in his best friend’s face at the refusal was Bucky’s main argument every day since that he made the right decision. 

“We can take a break if you need to,” Steve offered, still watching Bucky. Steve wore a blue t-shirt, and gray sweats, the stone-colored fabric thinning in several areas a hint to how often he wore them. His left ankle was perched atop his right knee, and the file he was more or less ignoring in order to monitor Bucky rested on his right thigh. 

Bucky ignored him, and silence fell between them for a few minutes while he scanned over the file. Even with the door to Steve’s office closed, Bucky could hear the muffled chatter from the rest of the team. Tonight was movie night if Bucky remembered correctly. A night he always refrained from participating in, to save them all from the tension that settled upon the room like a thick fog whenever he and Stark were in the same room. Steve and Wanda seemed to rotate which one of them would keep him company on such nights unless Bucky requested to be alone. Tonight, apparently, was Steve’s turn. 

“This was your idea,” Bucky remarked, closing the folder in his lap and tossing it on top of the other one he had discarded. “Looking at files of HYDRA members and associates is your definition of a fun night.” 

Steve’s mouth twitched. “HYDRA is – was – public enemy number one,” he said. “No one’s going to argue if we sweep up some of the stragglers.” 

Of course, sifting through the information was no small task. Steve’s office had been overrun with boxes of information on people, places, anything that could be remotely affiliated with HYDRA. They had slowly been working through it all, searching for anything that might jump out at them. Neither had spoken about the expectation for this particular task: the hope that something in these files might jumpstart Bucky’s memory. He had decades worth of information on HYDRA stuck in the debris of his mind and thus far has been unable to uncover anything. 

He had two separate piles on the table in front of him. People to look into or that he remembered, and those he didn’t recognize. The latter was a towering pile, and Bucky had to make a second one just to keep it from toppling over. The other pile only had a couple of meager folders, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if he really knew any of them. Sometimes, he looked at the old, grainy photos, and he thought he might know them. Like their identities were on the edge of his mind, their silhouettes passing through a thick fog. He could see them, see the answer, but just couldn’t make it out. And he tried. He tried so hard to push that wall, to reach into the fog and pull them out so that he could know. But he couldn’t get a grip on them; they passed through his fingers like mist. 

He flipped open the next file, holding back a frustrated groan when there were only two pictures taped to the inside. Not even a file. Just pictures. The first was a black and white photo, slightly ripped along the edges. There was a water stain spreading across the bottom right corner, mottling part of the photo. There was just one person in the photo – a young woman – standing outside. From the architecture of the buildings in the background, he guessed she was in Russia. She wore a Cossack coat, the collar flared up around her neck, and bound around her waist by a belt. 

He stared at the picture, brushing his fingers over the picture. His finger followed the curves of her facial features. She was there, with the rest of them, in that fog. He could see her in the dark crevices of his mind, and he reached for her. Like the others, she sifted through his fingers. Fingers curling, he tried to force her into his memory, to remember. He held her face in his mind, examining every single detail he could in that old picture he could see. He stared until his head started to throb, but he thought she was a little closer to him. Like she, too, saw him in the fog and was searching for him. She drew closer and closer, as he examined the shape of her eyes and the curve of her nose. He’d seen it before. Though her lips were pressed together in a thin line in the photograph, in his mind, she was smiling. Her lips pulled up in the corners, and her mouth was a little taut like maybe she didn’t do it often. 

“Buck, you alright?” Steve asked, but his words came out slow and faded to Bucky’s ears, like he was far away. 

He didn’t look up from the picture. “I know her,” he murmured, not sure if his friend would be able to hear him or not. “That smile…” 

 

* * *

 

> _“O altă misiune completă, soldat” (Another mission complete, soldier).  
>  _
> 
> _Her back was to him. There was blood dripping down the black leather vest she wore. There were smears of it on her cheek, across her palms. But a quick assessment told him the blood was unlikely her own. The way she stood was relaxed, with just the two of them. Her right hand rested on the bottom of the grip of her 9 millimeter pistol that was resting in the holster on her utility belt. The weight of it caused the belt to hang down on that side a little, pulling her pants down just enough so that he could see a small rim of flesh between the top of her pants and the bottom of her bulletproof vest.  
>  _
> 
> _She gave a quick, breathless bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the warehouse they were in. Then she turned towards him, and there was that smile, tight but genuine with the smallest flash of teeth. But the smile was quick to fall, eyebrows drawing together like they were trying to touch, her mouth falling open and eyes widening as she took him in. Her eyes rested on his face for a brief moment, and then angled down ever so slightly to his gun. His fingers pressed into the grip, arm extended and leveling its muzzle in her direction.  
>  _
> 
> _Her face smoothed into an unreadable expression. He had seen the confusion, the shock and perhaps a hint of disappointment. But there hadn’t been any fear. The winter soldier stood in front of her with his gun drawn, and she was not afraid. Not that it mattered. She was the final part to mission completion. His index finger rested heavily on the trigger – just a fraction of a movement would release the bullet from the barrel, and it would be over. She didn’t even make an attempt to move. She just watched him. Watched his eyes narrow as he took a small step forward, like the movement of his feet would convince his finger to even twitch. The gun was light and familiar in his grasp, but still his hand trembled slightly, like he couldn’t bear its weight.  
>  _
> 
> _“E bine” (it’s okay), she said. Her hand dropped from her weapon, both arms hanging at her sides. Her voice sounded flat, and yet he thought he heard something incredibly sad in it. A tenor of sorrow he couldn’t begin to comprehend. “It’s okay, James.”  
>  _
> 
> _The words were barely out of her mouth before he pulled the trigger. It felt like a knife had ripped through his organs, the sound of the gun firing echoing in his ears until it wailed over and over again like a siren. He didn’t see the bullet rocketing towards her, couldn’t make out the warehouse around them. Darkness settled upon them, cloaking everything like an avalanche hurtling down a mountain. It felt like talons scraping his insides, from the base of his throat down to the very pit of his gut. The pain was agonizing, like he had been ripped open and the raw flesh had been seared with white hot flame. But she hadn’t moved. He could still see her, for a brief moment, until wisps of shadow wrapped around her until she was gone, and he was alone in the dark._

* * *

 

 

“Bucky!” 

He jumped out of his chair, his metal fingers wrapping around the wrist of the hand that was roughly shaking his shoulder. He let go immediately upon realizing it was Steve, and he settled back into his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. 

“What happened? Are you alright?” Steve asked him, his hands resting on the arm rests of the office chair Bucky was sprawled in. The worry on his face was obvious. 

“I-I’m fine,” he said, clearing his throat to try and diminish the hoarseness in his voice. The folder with her picture in it had slipped out of his lap and onto the floor, and Bucky scooped it up. He lay it in his lap, leaning forward a little and looking over the picture. “I knew her,” he said. 

Steve shifted slightly, walking behind Bucky’s chair and peering over his shoulder at the photograph. “Y/N Y/L/N,” he read aloud, having looked at the name scrawled on the folder’s tab. Bucky assumed that whoever this woman was, Steve was not familiar with her. “How do you know her?” he asked. 

“I killed her,” Bucky replied, and he was too afraid to look up and see what Steve’s reaction might be. “I shot her.” 

“At best, she’s a suspected affiliate of HYDRA,” Steve said quietly. “At worst, she’s an elite member of their inner circle.” 

Bucky understood what Steve was trying to do. It was easy enough to figure out. Steve was trying to ease his guilt, as he’d done ever since Bucky came out of cryo. Bucky knew he didn’t deserve it, to be rid of the guilt, but Steve always tried anyway. 

Steve leaned forward a little, his arm reaching over Bucky’s shoulder so that he could tap on the second photograph. “Look at that time stamp,” he said. 

The second photo was in color, and in significantly better condition than the first. It was the same young woman. Her hair was a little different, but otherwise, she didn’t look like she had aged a day. There was no denying her likeness to the previous photo. Her clothing was more modern, having traded in the dress for jeans and a black leather jacket. The collar was turned up, and she seemed to huddle into the jacket. Her eyes were looking away from the camera, but he could see them. They were the same eyes that just stared at him as he shot her. He tore his gaze from her face and looked at the white numbers printed at the bottom.

“This has to be wrong,” Bucky said. “It says this photo was taken six months ago. She doesn’t look like she’s aged at all.” 

Steve made to tug the open folder out of his hand, and Bucky snapped his head up to look at him. His best friend nodded slowly. “Let me give this to Stark, and see what he can find out about her.”

“No,” Bucky said. 

Steve frowned. “No?” 

“Stark will want to round her up and throw her into an interrogation. He can’t – I can’t – do that. Not yet.” His eyes were drawn to the photographs again. He searched the fog in his mind for her, and while he couldn’t see there, he felt her there. She was buried in his fragmented memories. Waiting for him. “I have to talk to her first.” 

“If we can even find her,” Steve said. “She doesn’t seem to leave much of a trail.” He paused, licking his lips. “But if you knew her, then chances are she’s with HYDRA. You might not like what you find. I’ll give it to Natasha. She’ll be…discreet. For now.” 

Bucky nodded, leaning forward to gently pry the old photograph from its place on the file. Then he let it slip through his fingers, giving it to his friend. Steve said nothing, tucking it under his arm and then walked out of the office. 

Bucky studied the photograph, clasped between his left thumb and index finger. He knew Steve didn’t understand. Cap would do this, for him, but there was no way to truly explain it. How badly he needed her – Y/N – to be found. The images of her standing, watching him, played again and again in his mind – from the time she speaks until he pulls the trigger and darkness takes away everything else. Everything but that feeling, burning anew just beneath his skin. He didn’t dare mention it to Steve, because he couldn’t explain it himself. How after he pulled that trigger, he felt like a piece of him had died as well. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the nice comments and love for this fic! i appreciate it and love you all for it. hopefully this part is just as enjoyable as the first, and it’s now from the reader’s perspective. again, sorry for the awful translations. maybe next time i'll just leave everything in english and mention what language they're currently speaking in.

The Belmont Inn sat in solidarity upon one of the many hills located in rural Montana. Looking upon the Inn from the town nestled in the valley below, there’s a single winding road that reached the Inn’s entrance. The Inn itself had been around since the early 1900s but received a facelift a couple of years ago. It was one of those buildings that were created with the intent to merge with the surrounding environment rather than stand out. Made from spruce wood, both the inside as well as the outside reminded people of the old country. It was impressive, but an overall simple architectural feat. It was one of my favorite places.

There were seven bedrooms open for people to stay in, but they were rarely all full. They offered a complimentary breakfast and there were private bathrooms for each bedroom. During the evenings, the Inn’s owners would often lounge in the parlor with guests and offer them light snacks and alcoholic beverages. Nothing special, but they had good whiskey. 

“Here you go, Y/N,” the owner, Michael, said. He set the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table in front of the chair I was sitting in. 

“Thank you, Michael,” I said, grabbing the glass and taking a small sip. 

The parlor was more or less empty. It was me, Michael, and a couple occupying two recliners stationed in front of the fireplace on the other side of the room. They were conversing about completing the road trip they were on, and how early they needed to leave in the morning in order to get there on time. The woman wanted to leave earlier, but the man wasn’t so sure about it. I shook my head a little, wondering if that was their version or an argument.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Michael commented. He rested his forearms on top of the bar. They had added the bar in almost four years ago, and it had gotten ample use since then. Michael was an attractive guy. He had that tall, dark and handsome thing down. His hair was kept short, with an appealing amount of scruff on his face. He had a lean build. I remembered him mentioning he liked bike riding during my last visit. He had invited me to go along with him, but I declined. He still smiled at me, though, just as kind as always. “Been a year, at least.”

“Work,” I explained, smiling at him from behind my glass before taking another drink. I rubbed my lips together, savoring the taste. “I travel a lot.”

“You must have quite the job,” he said. He straightened, patting the bar like it was a loved pet. The woman that had been sitting in front of the fireplace approached the bar, and Michael signaled for me to give him a second before turning his attention to the other patron. 

I set my glass back on the coffee table and settled into my chair. I watched a bead of sweat drip down the side of the glass. It pooled around the edge of its base, each drop adding to the watery rim forming on the wooden table. I reached for a coaster, drying the circle of water with the sleeve of my jacket before setting the coaster down and my glass on top of it.

It was unnaturally warm for a Montana summer, and not even the air-conditioned indoors could completely fend off the humidity. Maybe it was time for a vacation. One that lasted longer than just a weekend. I could go somewhere warm, quiet. Though warm usually meant beaches, and beaches were noisy. Mountains were quiet. I could visit Nepal again. Been a while since I was in that part of the world. I debated my options while nursing my drink until the amber colored liquid was gone and all that was left were the honey-stained ice cubes.

I noticed when someone else entered the parlor but didn’t bother paying much attention until their big body sank into the chair next to mine. I swirled the ice in my cup, listening to it clink against the glass. His hair was long but tidy. It hung around his face, like a curtain to separate himself from the rest of the world. He was growing a small beard, which did nothing to hide his chiseled jaw. Just like his jacket did nothing to hide his hulking frame. The seams of the jacket were only a couple more pounds of muscle away from begging for mercy. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew how blue they were. How intense.

“мне нравятся твои волосы (I like your hair),” I said, dipping my fingers into the glass and pulling out an ice cube.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me. His hands rested in his lap, flesh and metal fingers interlocked with one another, wringing his hands. He tensed when I started to survey him in the same manner he was me, his jaw taut as he pressed his lips together.

“Ты выглядишь одинаково (You look the same),” he finally replied, his voice so quiet I barely heard it. After a long moment, he looked away, staring down at his hands. The air was thick with the nervous energy that was radiating off of him, and I wasn’t sure if I found that comforting or not. 

The ice was starting to melt, cold droplets running down my fingers. I popped it into my mouth. “If we’re going to have some kind of violent altercation, can we at least go outside?” I asked, waving my hand toward one of the giant windows, where orange and red light filtered in from the setting sun. “Fewer people to get in the way.” 

He was quiet for so long after my question I started to wonder if he even heard me. But then he finally said, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” I fished out another ice cube from my cup. “But I imagine you’re not here to enjoy the natural splendor of this place. So, what do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear. He still hadn’t been able to look at me, his gaze fixed on his hands.

I couldn’t help but watch him, almost unnerved by his apprehension. He was different. So very different from the last time I had seen him.

“I heard you go by Bucky now,” I said.

A small nod was all I got in response. His fingers flexed.

“Why don’t you ask me what you came here to ask me, soldat,” I told him, consuming another ice cube. I stood up, and the movement finally made him look at me, watching me cautiously. Michael was still busy speaking with the other customer, so I reached over the counter and pulled out the bottle of whiskey. I brought the bottle with me, deciding I was going to need it more than anyone else, sitting back down and filling my cup to the rim.

“You and I have…history,” he said slowly like he was feeling out how the words tasted on his tongue. And he wasn’t sure if he liked them.

“You could say that.” I had my cup in my hand, but I didn’t drink from it. A silence stretched out between us, and I couldn’t help but look out the window, as the shades of red and oranges turned steadily darker as the sun continued to sink. It’d be dark soon, and I found that comforting.

“Are you alright?”

The new voice startled both of us, and we looked up to see Michael standing over us. He was looking at me, and the worry on his face once again made me aware of the tension in the air, stretched taut like a high wire. If I was being honest, it wasn’t just coming from him. I was nervous, too. I kept glancing to watch his hands, at his feet – wondering if there was a gun strapped to one of them. He didn’t wear any tactical gear and looked less than threatening in jeans and his brown jacket, but that didn’t mean much. There were a number of places weapons could be hidden. And even then, there was the man himself.

“We’re fine,” I assured him, forcing myself to look away from Bucky and give the Inn owner a smile.

It only made him frown further, glancing between the two of us. “I have to go help this couple with a few things,” he said, waving his hand to motion to the couple who had been sitting in the room with us, now lingering in the doorway to the foyer. “If you need anything, you just yell.” He was looking at me while he said it, and waited a moment before he followed the couple out of the room. Leaving just the soldier and me.

“He cares about you,” Bucky said. As if that was surprising.

I set my glass on the table a little more firmly than I had meant to. “What do you want, Bucky?” I asked, turning my body so that I was facing his direction.

Something in my tone seemed to jar him, making him defensive. He raised his eyes to meet mine and held my stare. “All I have are bits and pieces,” he said. He still talked quietly, but there wasn’t a waiver in his tone. There was more strength to it. “Pieces of what I did, of Hydra, of you. And I’ve been trying to put them all together, but there’s a lot of it I can’t remember.” He paused, licked his lips. “Why did I shoot you?”

That was it. The question burning on the tip of his tongue. I sat a little straighter, ignoring the urge to rub away the chill that had spread across my arms. I couldn’t help but examine his face, at how tight his mouth was or the worry lines crinkled into his forehead. His body was stiff like he was expecting some sort of attack to come out of nowhere. Being here, asking these questions, didn’t seem like the place he really wanted to be.

I reached for my glass again, taking a long drink before returning it to its coast. “I’ll make this easy for you,” I told him. I leaned forward a little, in his direction, bracing my forearms on my knees. “What you came here for, you don’t want to know.”

There was a flash in his eyes, a quick grimace and then nothing, his expression deliberately blank. “Why?”

“Because I deserved it,” I said. I shrugged, leaning back in my chair and forcing my body to relax. But I could feel the adrenaline in my veins, the most basic instinct of mankind seizing up my limbs and screaming at me to leave. Leave and never come back, because it was going to be painful. “I’ll give you some advice. If you’re looking for those memories, for something to keep you up at night and to feel like shit about, keep looking. Because this isn’t it.”

I’m not sure if I voluntarily stood or if my body just did it of its own accord, but I was on my feet regardless. I turned away, thinking that I could be packed and on the road within the hour. Less, even. I would disappear, and make sure I was not found again.

I only made it two steps before I felt fingers wrapping around my forearm, the chill of them sinking through the fabric and into my skin. Before I could completely comprehend the movement, I had spun around. My arm was raised, the gun I kept tucked in the back of my waistband now a soothing weight in my hand. The muzzle rested against Bucky’s forehead.

He had let go of me, but his metal hand was raised, fingers curled like he had the intention of yanking the weapon from my hands. But he had managed to stop midway, standing like a statue. It reminded me of the Greek statues or paintings, of the gods in the middle of war, arms up and ready to attack. Slowly, he dropped his arms, letting them hang at his sides.

“Please,” was all he said.

I blew out a sigh, lowering my gun. I tucked it back in my waistband, making sure my shirt covered it. A quick glance assured me no one was around to have seen anything.

“It’s late.” I fidgeted with the hem of my top, pretending to smooth out some nonexistent wrinkles. “If the rest of your avenging crew isn’t going to be busting down the door, then we can talk tomorrow,” I said, glancing up at him. When he didn’t look convinced, I added, “I promise.”

Of course, my promises meant nothing. Not to him, or anyone else. But it seemed to placate him, and he nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

I didn’t wait to see if he would say anything else. I turned on my heel and left as quickly as possible without seeming too eager, moving into the foyer and then marching up the stairs to my bedroom. There was still the possibility of me leaving. It hung in the air just ahead of me, a temptation just within the distance of my grasp. But I knew I wouldn’t go. Not now. Not yet. The prospect of what lay ahead settled heavily in my stomach, weighing me down. Bucky only had the end of our story. I had everything. The ending, the epilogue, the middle. And the beginning.

> __
> 
> # 1947
> 
> _“врач специально просил вас (The doctor specifically requested you).” The soldier spoke to me over his shoulder, casting a glance in my direction to make sure I was following him. Not that there was anywhere else I could really go. Why every HYDRA facility needed to be underground and halfway to Hell was beyond me._
> 
> _“Хороший доктор знает, что быть няней не входит в мой набор навыков (Does the good doctor know being a nanny is not included in my skill set?)” I asked, examining the bleak concrete walls._
> 
> _“Он чувствует, что вы … наиболее квалифицированы для оказания помощи в работе с активом (He feels you are…most qualified to assist in handling the asset),” the soldier replied. He smoothed the lapel of his black jacket, his fingers sliding over the white tentacles protruding from a skull._
> 
> _He caught me staring, and he surveyed my own attire. The hem of my navy blue dress brushed against my knees as we walked, the pleated skirt swaying slightly as I moved. There were buttons halfway down the front, ending at the belt of the same shade as the dress cinched around my waist._
> 
> _The room he led me to only had a few people in it. They wore the same uniforms as the soldier accompanying me, the HYDRA emblem attached to the lapels of all their jackets. The men regarded me as I walked in, looking me over briefly. But my presence was quickly dismissed, the focus shifting to the center of the room._
> 
> _Another man sat in a chair, surrounded by equipment I had never seen before. He was lean, but there was power in his body. My eyes were drawn by a flash under the lights, and I realized one of his arms were made completely of metal. For a moment, I marveled at it. The panels connecting each part together, the dexterity of the fingers as they curled into his palm to form a fist. He had on black tactical gear, with one of the sleeves cut out to make room for the metal arm. His hair was short, the light brown locks just barely brushing against his forehead, like no one had bothered to run a comb through it. His face was attractive, but void of emotion. It was like staring at a blank slate. At our approach, he turned his head and watched us. I was almost startled by how blue his eyes were._
> 
> _“Er wird eine neue Ära einführen (He will usher in a new era).”_
> 
> _I turned, watching a small man bustle his way to me. He was short in comparison to the other men in the room, with a round face and circular glasses perched upon a flat nose. His hair was short and thin, having already receded a considerable amount from the top of his forehead. He didn’t wear a uniform, but instead, a gray pinstripe suit, with a red bow fastened a little crookedly around his meaty neck._
> 
> _“Zola,” I greeted, turning back to face the asset once the doctor was at my side. “Dies ist, was ich abgenommen wurde für (This is what I was taken off assignment for)?”_
> 
> _“Ihr Vertrag erklärt, dass wir Sie für jede Art von Aufgabe verwenden können, die wir wollen (Your contract does state that we can use you for whatever type of assignment we want),” he said breezily. “Ich brauche deine Fähigkeiten, während der Vermögenswert seinen Pflichten entspricht (I need your skills while the asset acclimates to his duties).”_
> 
> _“Er ist anfällig für gewalttätige Ausbrüche (He is prone to violent outbursts),” the soldier said, standing at my other shoulder. He watched the blue-eyed man with apprehension. “Er ist instabil (He is unstable).”_
> 
> _I too watched the asset. The shell of the man stared back at me, those blue eyes transfixed on my face. “Mein favorit (My favorite),” I said._


End file.
